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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26790607">i knew at first spike that we'd be a great set.</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghibliteez/pseuds/ghibliteez'>ghibliteez</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>ATEEZ (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - High School, First Meeting, Gen, M/M, Setter!Wooyoung, Wing Spiker!Yeosang, Wooyoung Has A Nose Ring For Plot Purposes, Wooyoung Is Not The Miya Atsumu He Thinks He Is, haikyuu tease omg</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 06:21:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,530</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26790607</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghibliteez/pseuds/ghibliteez</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“You,” Wooyoung starts, and the boy, Kang-Whatever, number sixteen from the blue and grey team fixes his cold eyes on him in a glare that could turn a rock into ice.</p><p>Number Sixteen has the thumb of his left hand pressed into the center of the palm of his spiking hand. He has a face that’s too pretty for a middle schooler and he’s roughly the same height as Wooyoung, or maybe he’s a little shorter. There’s something interesting about the set to his jaw and the arch to his eyebrows, equal measures haughty and curious. He’s interesting and Wooyoung can’t stop thinking about the look in his eyes that had dared Wooyoung to try as he completely broke past the block.</p><p>“I’m going to set for you one day,” Wooyoung says, and he means it.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jung Wooyoung/Kang Yeosang</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>53</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>i knew at first spike that we'd be a great set.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It begins in the volleyball gymnasium of his middle school, half a minute after the shrill echo of the starting whistle has dulled into the familiar </span>
  <em>
    <span>thump, thump, thump </span>
  </em>
  <span>of a game in progress. Wooyoung is a few months away from his thirteenth birthday, taller than the rest of his team but still not as tall as he’d like to be, and he watches the yellow and blue ball spin into a blur as the wing spiker from the opposite side of the team manages to get it in the air despite the strength of Yunho’s serve. The air in the gym feels too heavy and tense. Sunlight spills through the open windows and casts shadows of the ball and the players onto the hardwood floor.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The few seconds after the ball gets to the setter is always the slowest. It drags on from the moment the ball hits the open palm of the setter and his feet leave the ground. It’s followed by the rhythmic </span>
  <em>
    <span>thud, thud, thud </span>
  </em>
  <span>of a wing spiker’s feet. This one is coming from the left, the ball leaving the setter’s hands and into the air just as Chan times the block.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>One</span>
  </em>
  <span>: Wooyoung’s shoulder collides with Chan’s as they line up against the net. Across from him, the wing spiker is focused on the trajectory of the ball. He’s pretty, sharp features and bright eyes the color of molten chocolate. There’s a splatter of red by his left eye. A birthmark, Wooyoung guesses. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Two</span>
  </em>
  <span>: the spiker leaps off the ground. His form is perfect, arms flying gracefully into the bow and arrow position, elbows above the shoulders and hands poised to create the perfect topspin. His eyes meet Wooyoung’s head on. It’s like he’s daring him to do something about it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Three</span>
  </em>
  <span>: Chan says, “Now,” and the block goes up, the hardwood creaking under their shoes just as the ball reaches the peak of the arc and the wing spiker swings his arm. His palm collides with the ball precisely at the same time Wooyoung’s block reaches its peak. He aims a few inches away from the top of Wooyoung’s fingers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The sun shines behind him and his brass eyes look like little suns turned into liquid. Wooyoung thinks, </span>
  <em>
    <span>shit, I’m not going to be able to block it</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and swings his left hand to attempt to shoot the ball back onto the other side of the court. It fails and the ball spins past him and there’s a deafening </span>
  <em>
    <span>thump </span>
  </em>
  <span>as it lands on the hardwood floor to his left.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He lands on the ground and turns to look just as the light blue and grey side of the gym stands begins to cheer. The ball has rebounded off where it landed and launched itself far, far away from the court.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Usually, this is the part where he’d look at Chan and laugh at the twisted scowl on his face and poke at his wounded pride at being bested by someone from the other team. He’d lightly wave a hand and say, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Channie, stop looking like you’ve swallowed a lemon, we’ll get the next one and consider this one a pity point for them</span>
  </em>
  <span> and Chan will berate him about how it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>his </span>
  </em>
  <span>side of the block that had let the hit through in the first place. He’d laugh and laugh despite the glower from Yeonjun as he came to pry them apart as the referee whistled for the next serve.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Instead, this time, he turns to the wing spiker from the other team, the pretty one with the gold eyes and the letters </span>
  <em>
    <span>K A N G </span>
  </em>
  <span>on his uniform. He thinks about how he had looked at him with an expression that said, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’d like to see you try</span>
  </em>
  <span> as he swung his arm and spiked the ball past his block just seconds ago. He raises his hand and points at the across the net, grinning at the boy just as he turns around to look.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You,” Wooyoung starts, and the boy, Kang-Whatever, number sixteen from the blue and grey team fixes his cold eyes on him in a glare that could turn a rock into ice.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Number Sixteen has the thumb of his left hand pressed into the center of the palm of his spiking hand. He has a face that’s too pretty for a middle schooler and he’s roughly the same height as Wooyoung, or maybe he’s a little shorter. There’s something interesting about the set to his jaw and the arch to his eyebrows, equal measures haughty and curious. He’s interesting and Wooyoung can’t stop thinking about the look in his eyes that had dared Wooyoung to do something about it as he completely broke past the block.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m going to set for you one day,” Wooyoung says, and he means it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There isn’t a reply. There’s merely a sweeping glance, blank and impassive like Number Sixteen is seeing but not necessarily looking at him. He doesn’t smile, and instead, his lips press into a thin line and the thumb at the center of the palm of his spiking hand stills.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The hard, steady set to his eyes seems to sardonically repeat, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’d like to see you try</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Three sets later, it’s Yeonjun who scores the final point and takes the win for their team. Cheers erupt from the crowd as soon as he’s spiked the ball past the other team’s three person block, the ball hitting the ground despite the libero’s best attempts. Dami cheers the loudest, her dainty features pulled into an open, warm smile as she watches Yeonjun curl his spiking hand into a fist and point it at the crowd, who, in turn, cheers even more for him. It’s just a practice game, but a win is still a win.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Wooyoung turns to the other side of the net, just to see how the blue and grey team looks, and sees that the pretty wing spiker is watching him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kang-Something. Number Sixteen. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He opens his mouth to say something, like </span>
  <em>
    <span>good game, </span>
  </em>
  <span>or </span>
  <em>
    <span>your spikes are cool </span>
  </em>
  <span>or </span>
  <em>
    <span>which team will win the Olympics this year</span>
  </em>
  <span> or </span>
  <em>
    <span>it felt great to win against your team because I think your team’s playing style is shit</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but before he can get a word in, Number Sixteen turns and walks towards the cluster of blue and grey gathered at their benches. The palm of his spiking hand is a splotchy red and he flexes his fingers in rhythm with his steps. In contrast, the knuckles of his left hand are turning white where he’s curled his fingers into a fist.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The tips of his ears are a bright, cherry red. He doesn’t turn back, and Wooyoung wonders if he’ll see him at the qualifiers next month.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As it is, he doesn’t see him again that month. Or the year after that, really, because the funny thing is, Wooyoung stops playing after that.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Instead, in his second year of high school, three years after that practice match in the volleyball gymnasium of his middle school, long after the memory of seeing the brass colored eyes narrow at him from across the net has become hazy, Wooyoung sees Number Sixteen again in classroom 2-C after he quits volleyball, drops out of his high school and joins a new one. One where Number Sixteen goes to, apparently.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The first thing about him that Wooyoung notices is that he’s gotten a little taller. It’s obvious even as he’s sitting at his desk, hunched over a book of what looks like </span>
  <em>
    <span>poetry </span>
  </em>
  <span>at seven-thirty in the morning, and it’s easy to see that he’s grown broader too. He doesn’t look like a completely different person, but he doesn’t look the same either. It’s like he’s grown into the features he’d had back then. Not a lot of people would be able to pull off the awful white and cream combination the school had as their uniform, but it fits him nicely.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s pretty, still. In a totally objective way, of course.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Number Sixteen looks up at him just as he’s about to look away. For the longest time, despite the buzzing of the rest of the students in the class and the tell-tale grating of chalk against the blackboard, neither of them speak and Number Sixteen just </span>
  <em>
    <span>looks </span>
  </em>
  <span>at Wooyoung, from the piercing in his nose to the scruffed tips of his shoes, all without his face betraying a single emotion.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Your piercing is against the dress code,” Number Sixteen says, blankly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll take it off,” Wooyoung says, and though he’s not welcome, he drops his bag into the empty seat next to him even though he could sit anywhere else if he wanted to, offers his hand and says, “I’m Wooyoung, the transfer student. Let’s be friends, okay?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Number Sixteen doesn’t shake his hand. Instead, he gives him a look that pointedly says, </span>
  <em>
    <span>shut the fuck up</span>
  </em>
  <span> without actually saying it, thins his lips into what might be a grimace, and goes back to his book.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His name, according to the tag on the Introduction to Organic Chemistry textbook on the right hand side of the desk, is Kang Yeosang.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Have we all tried the Woosang today? I thought the Woosang was pretty neat.</p><p>- M.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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